


Secret Santa

by satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2862899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's December, and Grantaire is feeling down because Enjolras has moved across the country to pursue a career as an activist -- until he starts receiving mysterious gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Santa

When Grantaire awoke that first day of December, he had no idea what time it was — his shades were drawn, and his phone was dead. Somehow he sensed that it must be afternoon, at least, even as his head throbbed from consuming way too much alcohol the previous night, even by his standards.

After all, Enjolras was gone — he was probably 35,000 feet over the Rockies by now, sipping his third cup of coffee of the day and thinking of the dozens of ways he was going to change the world.

When he had first started dating Enjolras over the summer, they both acknowledged it wasn’t going to last for long — Enjolras was itching to get to Washington to pursue his calling as an activist, but Grantaire’s fledgling art career was centered in L.A., with his gallery connections and his bright studio not far from the Pacific Ocean. Once Enjolras accepted his fellowship that fall, with orientation starting right after Thanksgiving, they talked a lot about how they could work it out — but ultimately ended up going around and around in circles, weighing their options, none of them good.

So yesterday, not 24 hours before Enjolras was due to fly East, they had broken up.

And Grantaire had gotten drunker than he had in months.

If he had his way, he would have simply rolled over and pulled the blankets back over his head, shielding himself from the brightness of day, but he had a meeting at the gallery where he was showing his work next month, so he forced himself to shower and dress, making sure he put on his Ray-Bans before he opened up the door to go out to his car.

And there, perched on his doorstep, was a terra cotta pot with a rose bush with small pink blossoms.

A knowing smirk crossed Grantaire’s face as he picked up the vase and brought it inside. “I thought you said roses were cliched,” he texted to his friend Prouvaire. “I would expect better from you.”

The return text was a series of 10 question marks.

“You didn’t send me flowers today?” Grantaire typed back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Roses? Do you really think I’d be that unoriginal?” came Prouvaire’s reply.

Grantaire shrugged and shoved his phone in his pocket, examining the plant for a card — and finding none. Now he was completely stumped as to who the gift would be from — he felt certain it wasn’t Enjolras, but he couldn’t see any of his friends sending them either.

Must be the wrong address, he thought to himself as he walked to his car, putting the gift out of his mind.

**

After his meeting and a trip to the In-n-Out burger for some hangover food, Grantaire drove over to the Musain, a West Hollywood dive he and his friends frequented, although he realized as he walked in that most of them were probably busy with finals. Most of them, that was, other than Joly and Bossuet, who were huddled together in their usual booth. Their books were spread out in front of them, although it was clear they were doing much more talking than studying.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he slid into the booth next to Bossuet.

“I’m trying to convince Joly to buy that pair of leather pants for himself for Christmas,” Bossuet said. “I told him how hot he looked when he tried them on, but he didn’t believe me.”

Joly shook his head vigorously. “They’re too tight, Bossuet. They cut off my circulation to certain very important parts — and maybe I want to have kids someday,” he said, his mouth twisting into a pout.

“First of all, the thought of you and I having kids is completely terrifying — I’d probably drop the kid on his head, and you’d have that kid practically living at your clinic,” Bossuet pointed out. “And secondly,” he continued, leaning in with a conspiratorial glance, “It’s not as if you’d be wearing them for long.”

Grantaire shuddered. “Thanks for the visual, man,” he said, gulping down his beer. “I so did not need that today.”

Bossuet reached over and patted his hand. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “Have you heard from—”

“No,” Grantaire interrupted quickly. “I doubt I would have anyway. The fellowship orientation was supposedly really intense, and even if it wasn’t—” he trailed off, not wanting to relive the scene from the previous evening with his friends.

“Yeah, we heard what happened,” Joly supplied. “Combeferre mentioned it to me when we were studying together last night — he got a text from Enjolras about it and took off to meet him somewhere.”

Grantaire pursed his lips and exhaled — God, news traveled far too quickly among their friends. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get over it,” he said with a shrug, resisting the urge to ask Joly what the text said. “And hey, I got a random floral delivery this morning, so someone out there loves me.”

“It could be your one true love, Grantaire,” Bossuet said. “You never know.”

“Somehow I doubt it. They probably were for someone else,” he replied. “No one usually buys me gifts. Certainly not flowers.”

“Oh, Grantaire,” Joly sighed, his eyes meeting Bossuet’s over the table.

Bossuet grinned. “Hey, maybe things are changing.”

**  
Five days later, on a bright and sunny Friday morning, Grantaire was in his kitchen, drinking coffee and waiting for his English muffin to toast, when his doorbell rang. Puzzled, Grantaire opened up his door to find a very awkwardly sized box, which he dragged into his living room. He tore into the box, casting the packing materials everywhere, and finally revealing its contents: a small telescope. This time there was a card attached, with just a quote: “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.”

Grantaire chuckled and pulled out his phone — the choice of gift was far too obvious. “Thanks for the gift — the Van Gogh quote was a nice touch,” he wrote, then tossed his phone on the table and started pulling the apparatus out of the box — he had a window with a view of the western sky that would be a perfect spot for stargazing.

Ten minutes later his phone rang. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Combeferre said before Grantaire could say hello. “Why would I be sending you a telescope?”

“It wasn’t you?” Grantaire asked, his confidence in having solved the mystery vanishing.

“No,” Combeferre said flatly. “It must be someone else. Enjolras, maybe?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Grantaire replied acidly. There was absolutely no way this was Enjolras’s doing, he thought. But who was it?

“Ah well,” Combeferre answered. “Whoever gave it to you has interesting taste, though. Maybe you’ll let me come and use it sometime?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said before he hung up.

That night he found himself gazing at the heavens, pondering the mysteries of the universe, both large and small.

And for the first time in days, the booze stayed untouched in his cupboard.

**  
The gifts kept coming throughout the month of December — a set of boxing gloves and a gym membership that Bahorel vehemently denied sending, although they did set a date to make use of them together; an attractive and obviously expensive jacket that Courfeyrac insisted on coming over to see, even though he was not the one who purchased it; and a framed watercolor that Feuilly had painted, although it hadn’t come from Feuilly himself, but had instead been anonymously purchased from his website.

“You have quite the Secret Santa,” Bossuet remarked off-handedly one night, as he and Joly were gathered with Grantaire in their usual booth.

“It’s freaking me out a little, to be honest,” Grantaire said. “Why would anyone do these things for me?”

“Maybe it’s really Santa,” Joly said, his expression completely serious.

Grantaire grunted in reply. He hadn’t believed in Santa for years — but at that point he was truly at a loss for a better explanation.

**  
As was his custom, Grantaire was planning to spend Christmas alone — he had been estranged from his family for several years, so he typically spent his Christmas Eve drinking and watching movies, followed by a trip to the local Chinese restaurant on Christmas Day and a solitary drive around some of the beautifully decorated houses around town.

That Christmas Eve he had just settled himself on the couch, wearing his new fancy jacket and bearing a large glass of homemade egg nog, when he heard an insistent pounding on his front door.

“I’m coming,” he groused as he trundled toward the door.

And there on his stoop, clad in matching elf costumes and bearing shopping bags full of food, were Joly and Bossuet. “Merry Christmas,” they said in unison, as they pushed past Grantaire and into his kitchen.

“What the—” Grantaire was taken aback. “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were going to Joly’s parents’ house.”

“I told them Bossuet was sick and contagious, so we were disinvited,” Joly explained, pressing the buttons to turn on Grantaire’s oven and starting to unpack the shopping bags they had brought in.

“Hypochondria runs in the family,” Bossuet confided, earning himself a punch on the shoulder from his boyfriend. “Plus we didn’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.”   
“Especially not this year,” Joly provided. “So here we are.”

Grantaire could only watch, mesmerized, as Joly and Bossuet took over his kitchen, pulling out pots and pans, slicing up vegetables, and putting a chicken in the oven to roast, as if they did this on a regular basis.

“Didn’t I tell you that jacket would look great on him?” Bossuet remarked to Joly as he turned on the stove and started melting butter for a roux.

Grantaire’s ears perked up. “Wait — that was from you guys?”

Joly came up to him and put his hand on his shoulder, looking uncharacteristically sober. “We knew you took Enjolras’s leaving really hard, so we wanted to do something for you. To let you know that someone loved you.”

“We sent you the roses as soon as we found out you’d broken up,” Bossuet explained. “And the rest — well, we wanted to throw you off a little. Keep the surprise.”

Grantaire found himself at a rare loss for words — but his blue eyes, shiny with tears, let them both know exactly how he felt.

**  
Christmas Eve dinner was long and riotous, with ribald jokes passed back and forth and exploits shared and a great deal of wine consumed by all. Eventually all three passed out asleep on the couch in front of the television, the sound of Christmas carols wafting through the house.

When Grantaire awakened the next morning, Joly and Bossuet were gone, a note left in their place. “One more gift left,” it said, signed with a fiendish-looking grin. Grantaire rubbed his eyes and chuckled, then went to get ready to head off to the Panda Palace for his annual Christmas dinner.

As he opened his door to leave, he was startled to encounter his final Secret Santa gift on his doorstep.

It was Enjolras, shifting his weight back and forth nervously. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

And Grantaire smiled, offering a silent thank you to his two best friends — and wondering what good deeds he had done this year to have deserved such presents.


End file.
